


headache

by rangerhitomi



Series: radical dreamers [19]
Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! Zexal
Genre: Dancing, Festivals, M/M, Past Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 15:02:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7578661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rangerhitomi/pseuds/rangerhitomi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nasch has a terrible headache during a major festival. Fortunately, he has Durbe, dancing, and maybe a little goodnight kiss to keep his mind off it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	headache

The aroma of grilled and smoked fish, fire-roasted vegetables, heavy rice breads, and sweets fills the air, and even from the palace a mile from the site of the festivities, Nasch can smell it all. Each summer, the United Lands celebrate their peace and prosperity, giving thanks to the gods for the blessings showered upon them, and everyone is equal. Usually, he is excited for the opportunity to mingle with his people without being referred to as “Your Grace” or “my king,” but he woke up with a terrible headache and nothing seems to be curing it.

Still, he finds himself walking arm-in-arm with his sister through the festivities, who as head priestess is appropriately dressed for the traditional dance and prayer that will take place by the oceanfront at sunset. It’s the peak of the summer season and he’s dripping with sweat—which is predictably not helping his headache any.

“If you wanted to stay behind for a bit until it passes—” Merag suggests as they walk, and Nasch makes a growling noise more reminiscent of a palace cat than a king.

“You’ve shoved four herbal remedies down my throat,” he points out grumpily, “and none of them did shit for my” —she elbows him hard in the side and he grunts—“ow, fine, did anything for this knife in my skull.”

“You could take a nap.”

“It’s the middle of the afternoon.”

“Fine.” She drops her composed priestess expression and gives her brother a _look_ with one eyebrow arched sharply. “But I don’t want to hear another word of complaint out of you, _dear brother_.”

He bites back a retort and tries to smile at a vendor, whose own smile melts into a look of deep concern, so Nasch probably looks like he wants to punch someone. Fortunately, this chance presents itself as someone comes up behind him, squeezes between him and Merag, and drapes his arms over both their shoulders.

Unfortunately, the man’s _oomph_ of surprise comes a bit too late and Nasch realizes he’s just punched his best friend in the chest.

“Oh gods!” Merag places a hand on his chest and casts a narrowed eyed glare in Nasch’s direction. “Sir Durbe, are you hurt?”

“I’m all right,” Durbe wheezes, giving her a weak grin as he rubs his chest. “I just need a minute—”

Nasch crosses his arms and scowls. “When did you get back?”

“Good to see you too,” Durbe mutters.

Ignoring Merag’s hissed reprimands, Nasch grabs Durbe by the front of the shirt—which, Nasch realizes quickly, is United Lands garb and not Durbe’s—and pulls him into a one-armed embrace. Durbe tenses for a heartbeat before returning the gesture with a congenial pat on Nasch’s back.

When Merag clears her throat, Durbe pulls away from the embrace first, face a little pink, and smiles at her in turn. “My lady,” he says in a soft baritone, reaching for her hand and bowing low, “even the goddesses must envy your resplendent beauty.”

It’s the most ridiculous thing any man has ever said to his sister, but she _giggles_ of all things and allows him to press his lips to the back of her hand. “And you, Sir Durbe, look especially handsome in the garb of our people. Wouldn’t you agree, Brother?”

Nasch glances over Durbe’s laced sandals, the too-short silk sarong tied around his waist, and the sleeveless white silk tunic and decides not to comment with anything more than a grunted “mm.”

“It shows off your muscles so well,” Merag goes on, ignoring Nasch’s scowl, and she pats Durbe’s upper arm admiringly. “Nasch, look at these. They’re more impressive than yours, for sure.”

“You never answered when you got here,” Nasch says loudly, without looking at either of them. His face is hot. The sun, he tells himself unconvincingly.

“Oh, um…” Out of the corner of his eye, Nasch sees Durbe glance at the sky. “About two hours ago? The stable boy mentioned a festival and thought perhaps you would already be heading down to the docks, so I came straight here in the hopes of running into you.”

His head throbs with pain, right behind his left eye. He needs to get out of the sun. “Well, you found us. I’m sure my sister would be thrilled to show you around. In the meantime, I’m going to get something to drink and then probably go back to bed.”

“Oh…” Durbe’s face falls. “Um… would you like an escort back to the palace?”

Merag interrupts before Nasch can turn him down. “A moment, if you please, Sir Durbe.” She gives Durbe a brief curtsy and drags Nasch by the arm until they’re out of earshot. She scrutinizes Nasch’s face for a moment and puts her hands on her hips in a very un-priestess-like manner.

“What?” Nasch demands when the _look_ is getting too long and silent for his comfort.

“Don’t _what_ me, Nasch,” she hisses, jabbing him in the chest with a finger. “Durbe flew all the way here to spend time with you and this—”

“With _me_?” Nasch’s eyes flit over her shoulder, where Durbe is standing perfectly still, staring in the opposite direction. “He’s here for you just as much as for me.”

Merag huffs. “ _You’re_ the one with the candle burning for him.”

It takes Nasch a second to swallow these words and he can’t stop from turning crimson. “I— _what_? That’s—completely—”

“You’re a completely different person around him,” Merag interrupts. “You’re usually sulky and scowling but when he’s here—”

“I don’t sulk,” Nasch mutters, and she predictably talks over him as though he hadn’t spoken.

“—you smile more, get out of the palace, do things that men your age _should_ be doing. You talk about him all the time. I’ve seen maidens less lovesick than you.”

“I’m the king,” Nasch hisses, ignoring the last slight. “It doesn’t matter that I have only seventeen years. I’m the king, he’s some knight from the gods know where, and that’s the end of it.”

“This night is the festival where we all are equals,” Merag reminds him though he never actually forgot. “Tonight, he is not a knight, he is only Durbe. You are not the king, you are only Nasch.”

Nasch rubs his pounding temple. “And what, exactly, happens tomorrow when I’m king again and Durbe is a knight?”

Merag shakes her head wearily. “Maybe the two of you should figure that out.” She turns her back on him and walks over to Durbe again, who is now staring at the ground. “Durbe, it is wonderful to see you again. I have to leave to prepare for the ceremony this evening. I hope you will come.”

“I will,” Durbe promises, smiling as she plants a kiss on either cheek, and then she’s gone.

Then it’s just the two of them, in a walkway filled with vendors and filling with people, the smells that had wafted all the way to the palace earlier in the day filling Nasch’s nose and making his stomach grumble. Nasch had never been conscious of how he looked at Durbe before, not until Merag told him he looked like a lovesick maiden. Now he’s embarrassed and can’t look at Durbe because if Merag had noticed, won’t Durbe?

“Durbe,” he begins awkwardly, but Durbe shakes his head.

“I understand, my friend. Allow me to escort you back.”

He holds out a hand and Nasch has to resist the wild urge to take it. “No, I want to stay. I’m probably just hungry.”

Durbe frowns a little but inclines his head. “All right… what would you like to eat, my friend?”

“Nasch.”

“What?”

“Use my name.”

“That would be disrespectful,” Durbe points out, which is true most of the time and Durbe’s _my friend_ had always been more informal than _my king_ in Nasch’s view, but gods damn him if he didn’t admit that on some level he has always wanted Durbe to call him _Nasch_ instead of a colloquialism.

“During this festival, everyone is an equal,” Nasch says in a rush. He presses the palm of his hand into his eye to quell the pain. “I am Nasch, and you are Durbe.”

Around them, people are hurrying by, vendors are calling their wares, and the smells and sounds are almost overwhelming. But Nasch is focused on Durbe—Durbe, whose allegiance is to another king, Durbe, the knight with the flying horse, Durbe, a man right out of some lost legend—and Durbe smiles.

“Okay… Nasch.”

They’re soon walking shoulder-to-shoulder through the throngs of people, Nasch plucking grilled vegetables from a stick and Durbe drinking something from the hollowed-out skin of a large spiny fruit. Nasch hasn’t seen it before, so he asks about it.

“I don’t know the name your people have for it,” Durbe admits, “because it’s not native here. I brought a few once a while back and they took to the climate here very well.”

“What’s it called?” Nasch asks, wondering if the spikes on the sides of it are hurting Durbe’s hands.

“Where I come from, it’s called a _pi_ _ña_.” He smiles and holds it out. “Would you like to try? The _pi_ _ña_ skin gives the wine a good sweet flavor.”

Wine is probably the last thing Nasch should be drinking, but he accepts the fruit and takes a sip. The strong tang of the wine is muted a little by the sweet juice of the _pi_ _ña_ skin—maybe a little too sweet—but it’s not bad. He tells Durbe so as he hands it back.

“I’m not fond much of the fruit of the _pi_ _ña_ itself,” Durbe admits. “But I like the juice.”

“What other fruits do they have in the other kingdom?” Nasch asks, because he refuses to call it _your home kingdom_.

They walk together for some time, Durbe telling Nasch all about _the other kingdom_ —slithering creatures as thick around as trees, insects whose bites feel like getting stabbed with a dagger, birds in every color of the sunset, small and slimy hopping creatures whose touch is poison, cats the size of carts—

It sounds terrifying, but Nasch doesn’t wish to offend Durbe, who speaks with fondness of the other place; he is content to listen, to watch Durbe’s eager face light up animatedly with every retelling of some act of bravery, to note with amusement that Durbe’s pale, uncovered shoulders and neck are slowly turning to red in the sun.

As the sun continues downward toward the horizon, Nasch’s headache is still there. It pisses him off, because here he is enjoying the day with someone he is fond of—he can admit that to himself, right?—and yet he’s plagued by this incessant pain behind his eye. He thinks Durbe notices; he keeps asking if Nasch wants to go back to the palace, or if they want to leave the festival for a bit and rest, but Nasch stubbornly shakes his head each time and takes a sip from the _pi_ _ña._

They watch children play games with rings and small square sacks filled with feathers and beans, and Durbe tries his hand at an archery game, where he wins a small, faceless sackcloth doll.

“For you, Nasch,” he says with a silly smile and Nasch tucks the doll behind the sash around his waist.

“Swordfighting, horseback riding, archery—what else can you do?”

Durbe’s smile widens. “I’m a passable dancer.”

“Oh?”

Durbe gestures with his _pi_ _ña_ at the oceanfront, where Merag and a few other priests and priestesses are finishing setting up empty wooden brackets for their ritual. Already a crowd is forming. “I understand that there is a ceremony of some kind and then the festival concludes with people dancing?”

Nasch is relieved that the sky is gold and red as the sun dips behind the horizon, because his face is probably also red again. “Yeah, I—”

His hopeful response is cut off by a mournful dirge, and the priests and priestesses begin a slow dance in the light of the dying sun. Merag’s voice is high and clear above the slow drumming, which throbs in time to Nasch’s headache. She sings thanks the gods for the peace, and for the prosperity and good health of their kingdom. He bows his head as she takes a torch from one bracket to another, lighting each with a supplication for the gods’ continued mercies.

When she calls for the gods to bless the king with a clear mind and a heart guided toward justice and peace, Durbe’s hand wraps around Nasch’s.

“We seek your protection for the year, for the harvest, and against any who wish us harm,” Merag concludes, and she lights the last bracket. “So we pray.”

“So we pray,” the people echo, and then Nasch, and even Durbe whispers it when silence falls once more.

The silence stretches until the last rays of light vanish beneath the sea, and without warning, the music starts up again, faster and more upbeat. Sure enough, the people immediately take to dancing, searching out partners, and Nasch is about to turn to Durbe and ask when a young girl, perhaps slightly younger than Nasch, reaches Durbe first and asks breathlessly for his hand. Durbe releases Nasch’s hand and agrees; with a twinge of jealousy, Nasch watches her stare up into Durbe’s face as Durbe smiles back at her. When the song ends and Durbe graces the girl with a kiss on the back of the hand, it is Nasch’s turn to be taken away by a young maiden.

It continues for the next several songs—Nasch loses track of how many—and his head feels about to split in half. But he longs to have even one dance with Durbe before the festival ends and he loses his chance. He can see Durbe gracing each girl with a kiss on the back of the hand and a warm smile and wishes he could be that young maiden instead.

Once, that young maiden is Merag, and when he catches her eye, she frowns over Durbe’s shoulder at him. As discreetly as possible, Nasch nods his head at the girl he is dancing with and casts his sister a meaningful—possibly longing—look. She nods and begins to move closer, pulling Durbe with her. This works to Nasch’s advantage, for when the song is over and Nasch hurriedly thanks the girl for the dance, he is able to slide over to Durbe before he is accosted by another. The moment Durbe finishes kissing the back of Merag’s hand, Nasch is therefore in the perfect position to blurt out, “May I have this dance?”

Merag gives him a sly smile and mouths “you’re welcome” at him before gliding away. Nasch stares into Durbe’s face, glad for the darkness save for the red flickering flames around them.

“Of course,” Durbe says with a warm smile of his own, “I did tell you I would show you how passable I am at dancing, didn’t I?”

Face hot, Nasch places his left arm around Durbe’s shoulder and rests his right on Durbe’s hip. Durbe places his hand over Nasch’s and guides it around his waist, pulling them closer together. The arrangement is painfully intimate; even through the slight dizziness exacerbating his headache, Nasch can smell some kind of perfume on Durbe’s neck that barely masks the sweat. Nasch watches Durbe’s chest rise and fall with each breath; even the silk top Durbe wears is almost translucent. The knight’s heartbeat drums against Nasch’s own, in sync, and Nasch’s face gets hotter.  

“I will cherish the time I spent with you today for the rest of my life,” Durbe whispers into his ear.

“Me too,” Nasch manages to say, though he yearns to say _there are other memories I would like to make tonight._ Instead, he smiles. “You _are_ a passable dancer. What is there you can’t do, Durbe?”

“Hmm.” Durbe’s hand slides farther around Nasch’s waist and their bodies touch now. Nasch’s heart beats so fast he’s afraid it will break out of its prison. “I’ll get back to you.”

Nasch laughs as the song ends, but the laughter dies quickly when the knife in his skull twists sharply and he lets out a grunt of pain.

“Nasch?”

He leans into something—Durbe’s chest, from the feel of it—and breathes heavily. “Durbe,” he murmurs, “take me to bed.”

“Literally or—”

“Don’t be difficult.”

Durbe leads him through the crowd with an arm around Nasch’s waist, waving off hopeful young maidens with a quiet “my friend is not feeling well, maybe next time” and Nasch struggles to stay on his feet. His vision is swimming now, though he supposes he should be grateful it waited until the end of the night to give up on him.

“Durbe,” he mutters after a while.

“We’re almost there,” Durbe assures him.

“That’s not it.”

“It can wait.”

Nasch isn’t sure if Durbe is somehow aware of what Nasch is dying to say –the night is almost at an end, and then things will be _normal_ again, and Nasch doesn’t want _normal_ after he’s had _this_ —but each time Nasch tries to speak, Durbe quiets him with a soothing word, an “almost there, just up these stairs” or “I’ll get you some water when we reach your room.”

But when that moment comes, and Nasch is settled in his bed with his soft pillows and sheets, Durbe stays at his side and watches him with concern. When he presses the back of his hand to Nasch’s forehead, Durbe’s _you’re hot_ probably has nothing to do with a fever and everything to do with the question burning Nasch up from the inside. He wants to ask, but asking will make things _different_ no matter how Durbe responds, and does he value Durbe’s friendship too much to seek something more?

He lets Durbe press a cup of water to his lips. It’s a little too warm, but it feels good.

Time goes by. Durbe is starting to get restless, tracing a finger on the seams of Nasch’s sheets.

“I should—”

“Will you kiss me?” Nasch interrupts desperately.

Time stops. Durbe stares at him, completely still.

“Kiss you?”

“You were a good dancer,” Nasch says, and it’s a reach because he’s still not sure if he read Durbe right today. “I wanted to see if…”

Durbe stares at him in stunned silence for a moment before he laughs weakly. “Are you… challenging me?”

“Only if it works.”

For a second, he looks conflicted, staring at the floor while biting his lip. But then he turns back to Nasch, places an arm on Nasch’s other side, and leans close. Nasch’s lips part expectantly but Durbe hovers over him, just out of reach. “Tomorrow I will be your knight again, and you the king,” he whispers, and his warm breath is soothing. “You know it can’t…”

“I know.”

Durbe closes his eyes and goes to kiss Nasch’s lips, but misjudges and ends up kissing Nasch’s nose instead. Nasch can’t help it; he laughs and Durbe pulls away, a pout on his face.

“Gods, Durbe, what was that?” Nasch is pretty sure there are tears in his eyes.

“I… Look, if you don’t—”

Durbe’s pathetic explanation falls to pieces as Nasch reaches up and pulls their faces back together, this time lips touching. Durbe makes a noise—not one of displeasure, Nasch notes with satisfaction—and they kiss for a couple of minutes until Nasch thinks Durbe’s neck is probably a bit sore from the unexpected angling of their mouths.

“Well,” Durbe says finally through heavy breaths, holding himself aloft on shaking arms, “that was… different.”

“Looks like I found that thing you can’t do perfectly,” Nasch teases.

The light jab to his shoulder is worth it.

“Good night, my fr… Nasch. I pray your headache is gone in the morning.”

_Me too._ “Durbe?”

Durbe pauses by the door. “Mm?”

“I enjoyed not being your king today.”

There's a little smile on Durbe's face. “We should do it again sometime,” Durbe replies quietly, and closes the door behind him.

Nasch smiles against his pillow. The taste of the _pi_ _ña_ lingers on his lips.


End file.
